


Fragmentation

by guiltyhousewife



Category: Disney - All Media Types, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Anal Sex, Forced Cohabitation, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Coercion, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-02 00:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17877656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guiltyhousewife/pseuds/guiltyhousewife
Summary: A dark, detailed, sweeping and thorough look at what would have happened had Ratigan been crowned king forever, with a focus on Stockholm and mental degradation. Heed the warnings.  A music video was made of this - https://youtu.be/BU-Ed39BNuI/NOW TAKING PROMPTS/REQUESTS





	Fragmentation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Фрагментация](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405690) by [EyeGens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeGens/pseuds/EyeGens)



We are wholes for most of our lives, sometimes until the end of those lives.

We construct ourselves from assumptions about who we are. We take a shaky guess at the summation of our existence, and build it into reality. Our beliefs about who we are become the foundation. Through time and pretensions of certainty, it is compressed into a solid. The stable, functional individual has then become what they want to be.

But we are temporary wholes. Because we are made of so many pieces - our values, our memories, our hopes, dreams, and loves - we are destined to return to fragments, like wind and rain-battered slate sliding shelf after shelf into the abyss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Basil stands, back erect, amid glorious wreckage.

There are shards of the giant chandelier everywhere from where it fell near-center in the room. They are pearly, glittering, and slicing into the dead weight of the fallen soldiers lying unfeeling atop them. But it is not just the Queen's royal protectors that go to permanent rest tonight; her more loyal subjects fell like flies under Ratigan's men, their righteous patriotism no match for the waves of ambitious criminals at the professor's helm. Horrifyingly, some soldiers still stand, converted to Ratigan's cause and viciously efficient in the business of a coup.

The queen herself suffered a swift, horrifying death in the maw of Ratigan's cat.

Mr. Flaversham - dead. Olivia - gone. (Basil refuses to accept that she is dead; surely a clever, wee girl could slip past the chaos into the cooling night). And Dawson, dear Dr. Dawson, somewhere, somewhere...

Ratigan, in the flush of victory, throws aside his manicured composure, his gentlemanly restraint, and crows with the full, manic flush of victory in Basil's face.

"It's over, detective, it's over! I've won! I have finally won!" his voice rises to a fevered pitch, and with a careless hand, he smacks Basil's stiff form to the floor. His jaw hits the marble with a crack, and immediately, a trickle of blood smears the fur on his bottom lip.

Ratigan lords over, his words loud and inescapable - a barrage of hopelessness.

"Don't you get it you fool? It's over. Admit you have lost to a superior mind!"

Basil shakes with indignation as he rises to his feet, wiping his mouth of blood.

"A superior mind, ha! You are evil and loathsome, and will soon succumb under the weight of your own madness!"

Ratigan's fist raises, but Basil is not put off, his voice raising as well -

"Until then, I will stop at nothing to set things right-"

But he was cut off by Ratigan's incredulous bark of laughter.

"Set things right? And how will you do that, little detective? Do you really think you are walking out of here tonight?"

His paws spread wide, as if mocking Basil with the full, weighty reality of his situation. Those on Ratigan's side laughed as well, expecting and even anticipating the slaying of their boss's adversary, a fate the smaller mouse seemed to not comprehend.

But Basil understood. Bravely, he stuck his chin out, feeling a solid determination build in his chest.

"No, I don't expect a dark mind like yours to extend any sort of mercy. But I go to my grave knowing that Britian will never stand for you as King, Ratigan!" He shouted defiantly at the rat's back.

Ratigan reached his hard won throne, and sat, turning to face Basil. A slow, pitying smile melted across his face and he shook his head.

Basil felt a shudder of terror roll down his spine at Ratigan's next words.

"Poor, stupid Basil. Who said anything about killing you?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Basil's freedom came and went in confusing tides.

At first, Ratigan took a simple pleasure in keeping him relatively close, to gain pleasure from watching his defeated rival watch him regale in his newly won title of King. Basil would fume and sputter objections when Ratigan would flex his authority.

"It's barbaric, it's monstrous!" he cried upon hearing of Ratigan's plans to round up all the homeless waifs and orphans and put them in work camps.

Ratigan clucked in mock sympathy, "Nonsense, old boy, it's pragmatic. I simply have the mettle to do what other weaker rulers before me could not."

"The difference is that they were REAL rulers who deserved their title, not like you, you fiend, you blag-guard!"

And Ratigan would lose his temper, and when Basil crumpled to the ground after a hardy smack across the face, that would be the end of that.

His pleasure in lording his power over the fallen detective was waning.

The notion of escape occurred to Basil rather late in his imprisonment. At first, his moral senses told him to remain close to Ratigan, the proximity necessary to try and foil his evil plans. He realized eventually that so close to the tyrant he was powerless, and he designed an idea to escape, to work out details of Ratigan's inevitable defeat alone. Though free to walk around the great halls and rooms of Ratigan's estate, it was made clear with crossed spears and bristling swords that he was not similarly free to leave. But Basil didn't consider himself a great mind for nothing - numerous plans and schemes blossomed in his mind, nurtured by intellect and rationality.

Numerous plans and schemes frustratingly foiled, time and time again.

Disguising himself as a palace guard earned him nothing but humiliation when he was unmasked by Ratigan himself, and a fair amount of discomfort when the rat-king murmured intimately: "The very idea you could fool me in any disguise - Basil, I know you better than you know yourself, dear boy."

Constructing an elaborate pulley system out of light-fixture chains, curtains, and secreted-away-rope only resulted in a broken leg when guards appeared out of nowhere to sever the holding-line, sending Basil crashing to the floor with the thrum of pain and Ratigan's mocking laughter echoing through his body.

Creating a knock-out gas out of palace-plants and some of his food he set aside, useless when Ratigan's foresight allowed him to send soldiers searching in Basil's quarters, smashing his makeshift chemistry equipment to the floor.

The months went by, and all of Basil's attempts at escape failed. He became desperate and his ingenuity bled into a carelessness and disregard for his own safety. His most drastic move surprised even Ratigan himself, and roused him to a furious resolve to put an end to Basil's maneuverings.

Normally a nonviolent sort, Basil struggled wildly in the arms of the men restraining him, stamping his feet, and reaching out with teeth and nails to fight his way free. Ratigan stood before him, huffing and swelling in his anger. He held a white handkerchief to his neck,stemming the flood of blood leaking down his satin collar from his punctured neck. He refused the fluttering hands of his palace doctors, instead throwing to Basil's feet the improvised dagger used to attack him. Though ingenuous in its clever construction - a segment of rubber from Basil's own shoe laboriously hardened over time by candle flame - it was a plan without a plan, the wild mouse making a bold charge at Ratigan seated on his throne and plunging his tool into the rat's neck.

"Once the most brilliant mind in London, and now look at you, a little savage!"

His words seemed to hit Basil for a moment, making way through his heedless anger. The former detective's shoulders slumped.

Ratigan's spittle flew as he ranted -

"What exactly did you hope to accomplish, you fool? I should have had you killed long ago..."

Basil arched up in the restraining hold upon him, "Then why don't you?"

Ratigan brought his face close, prodding Basil in the chest with his claw, "Oh no, that would be much too easy a fate for you, my Basil. Years impeding my every criminal endeavor will be paid back in full to you, I promise."

Suddenly, a wicked whim stole across Ratigan's brain, and he cocked his head as if in thought.

"Of course, your fat little tag-along, what was his name, Dawson? Ah yes, he wasn't as willing to go to his death as you seem to be. Oh no, he wheedled and plead until the axe blade finally tumbled his blubbering head from its shoulders. " The smile hovered on his pursued lips watching Basil inflate with rage, unshod tears in his eyes at finally knowing the undeniable truth of his friend's fate.

Then Basil did something he never had done before and never did again, and spat right into Ratigan's face.

The pummeling he received from Ratigan's fists and later the rat's vengeful soldiers spear butts and swords handles was worth it, to see the look of absolute surprise on Ratigan's face. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course his little act cost him his freedom. Ratigan had him looked away, wrist and ankle, in the most light-vacuous cell in the entire kingdom. For months, he was left alone, brought food only when he was asleep, denied company, fresh air, light or motion. His mind kept pace with his body in wasting away.

The guards reported to Ratigan when their prisoner went finally motionless, though still breathing, and that was when Ratigan himself descended the stairs in full regal attire.

He peered with open curiosity into the cell, then smiled at the sight he found there. Basil wasn't even standing. He was slumped into a sprawl on the floor as far down as his chains would allow him. His head hung low. Ratigan called softly.

"Basil."

No response.

"Basil."

The mouse did not stir.

"Come now, Basil-dear, to not even acknowledge your company is really quite rude."

Ratigan's head came up, protesting the loss of miserable inertia. However, seeing Ratigan's gleaming teeth and crown in the weak light coming from the torch Ratigan held shocked him through and through. His eyes sought Ratigan's wildly. His mouth moved, but the hoarse whispers of disuse failed to conjure words.

"I've come to visit you, old friend." A small tear rolled down Basil's dirty cheek, not unnoticed by Ratigan.

"Are you sorry, now, for resisting me? Do you think you can behave yourself if I set you free?"

Basil gave a little grunt, rattling his chains weakly.

Ratigan pushed it further.

"You may call my kingdom your home if you can promise to conduct yourself in a manner more befitting that of a royal, pet detective."

Basil stared at him in watery disbelief, jaw loose.

Ratigan let the silence hang for a moment, then shook his head as if in disappointment.

"Ah well, then, if you are going to be stubborn, I suppose it can't be helped. Goodbye, Basil."

He was almost out the door before he was rewarded with what he came to hear.

"Wait, please."

He turned, prompting Basil to continue in his strange, rusted voice. "Take me with you."

Ratigan came down on his haunches in front of the broken mouse, lifting his smudged chin in his own pristine white glove. "What's the matter, dear boy? Tired? Hungry? Thirsty?" he mocked.

Basil shook his head with an impossibly weary spirit, as much as he could in Ratigan's gentle, but firm hold.

"I don't want to be alone anymore."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first piece - defiance - shivers loose and is lost

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ratigan finds post-captivity Basil a much more malleable clay to work with.

He is free now to roam, the gloomy specter of the dungeon a memory, though out of some anxiety, he keeps mostly to his own quarters, which Ratigan obliges into making into the detective's own personal sanctum. He is given small luxuries: velvet curtains, ceiling high bookshelves, paintings and maps and a comfortable and elegant bed, oriental settees, everything, until his little palace hole looks just like his old home back on Baker Street.

He doesn't fight, really--not anymore. Ratigan suspects Basil keeps away and to himself so he doesn't have to be faced with the fact that he isn't fighting, to avoid the press of guilt and shame.

But he isn't quite done being Basil, not by a long shot.

Ratigan catches him sometimes, working hard to escape the limitations of himself. He will scratch away furiously on a scrap of paper, paws ink stained. He will pour through books, searching in his physical and mental catalogue of knowledge, for something, something - And he will mutter, the inflections of his private conference sounding like full conversations with a ghost.

He tolerates Ratigan's presence, bristling only silently, resisting only in the solid line of his backbone, the pursing of his lips, the frigid, clipped manner in which he speaks. Ratigan is confidant he can push further, though why is consumed in doing so, he cannot say. In the darkest hours of suffocating night, he wakes panting and longing to hold Basil's pulsing brain in his bare hands, digging in, owning with his fingertips -

He learns to manipulate Basil by appealing to his crumbling rationale.

"You seem tense, precious..." He places covetous hands on Basil's shoulders. The other goes rigid, then lets it go. It is but of the work of a moment to suppress his still lingering hatred for Ratigan.

"Your monikers for me are becoming increasingly familiar, Ratigan. " He says tiredly. He shrugs Ratigan's hands off and busies himself straightening his pictures. Ratigan chuckles inwardly. Anything to seem productive...

Ratigan ignores his last statement, and continues -

"Maybe you're missing your pipe, ole boy?"

Basil turns, surprised at Ratigan's level of intuition. Could he see the nervous clench of his teeth, hear the tapping of his fingers into the night, the itch on his skin for relief? He wants to deny it, but the look on Ratigan's face is deceptively clear of malintent.

He sighs: "Actually, yes, I do enjoy the occasional smoke now and agian."

Ratigan smiles at Basil's downplay of his addiction.

"I could provide another for you, and more, enought to puff away the rest of your dear little life."

"And exactly why would you do that?" Basil asks shrewdly.

"Ah, Basil, so untrusting! But you're right, I do require something, something small, really." He grins. "Just a kiss."

He allows Basil's shouts of indignation and horror to carry him right out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But he is not done. His ploy needs cementing.

He makes sure Basil can get no rest to escape his renewed cravings. He has clock after clock sent into Basil's quarters. He takes away Basil's distractions, momentarily divesting his rooms of all books and papers. He manicures his ward's meals down, allowing hunger to fan the flames of nicotine longing.

But most of all he himself smokes, blowing purring, coaxing wreaths under Basil's door at all hours.

After a week or so of this, he comes back and makes his offer once again, this time without the grin. His patience excels, because Basil is clearly considering it now. His eyes are puffy and pink from lethargy, and his nails are bit down to bleedy nubs.

His hesitations now are flimsy, and easily dismissed by the cool, mild expression on Ratigan's face and words.

"Just one kiss?'

Ratigan nodded like a gentleman.

"Just one."

"And I have your word of honor that it ends here, that I get my pipe?"

Ratigan had to exert mighty effort to keep the mocking smile off his face. Since when did Basil value his word? Surely a sign of some sort of inward slide. And yet, ironically, he did plan to keep his word, this time.

"But of course."

As a shudder of sheer pleasure washed over Ratigan at the victory of feeling Basil's lips press against his for the briefest of moments, another movement made itself known - the shivering loose of yet another piece of Basil -dignity- into oblivion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course the next natural step was a progression into higher favors for bigger rewards. A commerce was set up between them, and Ratigan found it relatively easy to appeal to Basil's now very warped sense of logic.

A longer kiss with an added embrace in exchange for his old clothes back? Reasonable.

Willingly sitting on Ratigan's lap and being hand fed candies and chocolates to earn a proper chemistry set? Fair.

Saying silly, meaningless things like "I love you" traded for other silly little things, like tools, a chess board and pieces, cigars, cigarettes, and good quality wine? Not too big a task. These were distractions, Ratigan knew, the way a bird fills his nest with shiny pieces of this and that. Basil was trying to rebuild his old life, but he would never, ever be the same as he once was, even if he recreated every minute detail of his life before his defeat.

Ratigan discovered through his bargainning what mattered to Basil the most, and in some ways, his discoveries surprised him, watching the most painful core of the detective unfold just for him.

The little touches, kisses, and wandering hands did not satisfy Ratigan for longer. A court full of women vying to be the new queen was at his disposal, and yet all he wanted was the detective. He had his body, he wanted his mind, and that was a fortress. To him, Basil was a reminder of his old crimminal glory days, and the thrill of matcihing wits with the only other person he considered his equal.

Long into the night, he conversed with his beloved Basil, until he finally brought up his most daring offer so far.

With a gentlemanly sense of delicacy, he takes the cigarette out of Basil's mouth and sets it aside.

"My dear Basil, I must confess, I am curious to see how your clever mouth does with something more filling..."

Basil blanches, and is about to ask if Ratigan is serious, but looks into his face and sees it is so, but feels the need to protest all the same,

"Come now, Professor, that's unseemly." He pushes away from the table, feeling his chest tighten. "You've gone a bit too far, asking such a thing of me."

He goes to rise from his chair, his nerves demanding space be put between Ratigan and himself, but Ratigan catches his arm. His entire gloved hand wraps around Basil's forearm; it is lost beneath muscled finery. Ratigan squeezes, and Basil gives a wince.

"Ah, but do I ever come emptied handed, Basil?"

Basil shakes his head, "Nothing, I want nothing of you!"

Ratigan snatches his jaw with his other hand, turning Basil's jaw at an uncomfortable angle. His voice is like smoke, and he pours it hot upon Basil's ear and neck. The hold is too tight for Basil to flinch away, this time.

"Is that so, then, Basil? Here I was thinking you'd love to finally learn what happened to that little girl who seemed so dearly attached to you..."

With a surge of pained surprise, Basil manages to break free of Ratigan's hold. He stands, grabbing a handful of Ratigan's sleeve and twists it desperately in his hands.

"Olivia! Where is she? Tell, me Ratigan, damn you."

Ratigan's grin was wide and sharp, the white crescent being the only moon left in his sky.

"Now Basil, giving you something for nothing? That's not fair, is it?"

He is pleased at how little time it takes, watching Basil's mind behind the stressed brow and indrawn lip try to fight it, figure it, and finally accept it.

"No, I guess not."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ratigan rushes back to his own lavish chambers afterwords, wanting to instantly relive the memory to it's highest experience. He frees himself once more from clothes now soiled and bagging, and takes himself in hand, closing his eyes with unsteady, furious strokes.

So good, so good. This is the pleasure that circles back to resemble pain, this is the opiate of full, gluttonous sensation. In the dark, he is glad is he alone. He is no longer a King, or even a professor, he is a crimminal laughing with head thrown back, mindless as he enjoys his newest purloined treasure.

To see Basil on his knees in prim, red dress coat, collar still tucked even with a mouthful of Ratigan, was ambrosia. He was torn between obsessively absorbing every detail - the clench of Basil's fingers in his own knees as he worked the member in his mouth, his lips firm and stretched to the limit around Ratigan, the pink coming through the wheat colored fur on his face, the hard pulls of air through his nose as he fought the horrifying urge to cry - and the desire to shut out everthing but touch, the sweet burn of the warm wetness around him. He wanted to last longer, to draw the experience out, but despite his estimation of his own self-discpline, he came soon and hard.

He felt benign, after. He stroked the bowed head resting on his knee, not even minding his cum being spat into the carpet. Lazily, he leaned his head down, and saw tears streaming silently from dry eyes. Basil had gone vacant again.

He felt benign enough to tell his fallen adversary the truth.

"I don't actually know what happened to her, that night."

Basil looked up in dismay.

"But," Ratigan smoothed, "It is highly probable that she left with the child-refugees that vacated London by train those first few days of the coup. I'll get some of my men on researching that information for you, dearheart."

As Ratigan rose to leave, Basil spoke in a small voice.

"Um, thank you."

It was that tiny bit of humility and grattitude that played itself in Ratigan's ears as he spent himself on his own hands that night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The last piece - sanity - is the heftiest. It is the largest and most solid of all the parts, and forms the bulk of the whole. If it breaks, it does not do so with a sibilant slide; it comes apart violently.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He lays across the arms of his favorite red chair, sprawled yet still managing to look dignified. His pose is graceful withankle cocked and elbows askew, as he slides the bow up and down, testing and warming the strings of his favorite instrument. Only Basil could look this way, still refined and poised, while his clothes lay discarded on the floor in front of the fire, and wearing only his dress slippers. His fur is ruffled and oily from grasping hands and a lascivious tongue, but he is at peace as his song begins, somehow above the state of his own bodily debauchery.

A cultured man, Ratigan recognizes the piece after a few strains; Faure's Élégie is slow and low, and though peaceful, it still has the gentle sadness to accompany the drifting away of sense and reason.

Ratigan sets aside his glowing amber glass, and crosses the room to Basil . He reclines in his favorite place, above Basil on the back of the chair.

Who knew that such a simple thing - that violin - would have bought Ratigan the greatest prize of all? He would have thought that after telling Basil of Olivia's whereabouts, he would have had no more cards left to play. Yet it was Basil himself who proffered the transaction. It was but the work of a day to search the now-derelict remains of the abandoned Baker Street residence to find the prized violin. Miracously, it was still in excellent condition, warm and polished in Ratigan's hand, he having done the search himself.

He had it cleaned and refitted and brought it to Basil in a lovingly enscribed, brand new case. A case he refused to open for the detective until after...

Basil must have braced himself for the pain, because he made little vocalization of it. He moaned and grunted lowly, but absent were the tears and screams Ratigan had imagined in his darkest, most bitter fantasies.

He was a cool, wooden little puppet bending and following to the will of Ratigan's hands. Ratigan at first was dissatisfied with how passionless Basil treated the whole thing, hissing in only a little when Ratigan's fingers slipped inside him, gasping only momentarily when he was flipped to his back on his very own worktable. But once he had forced himself, inch upon painful inch, inside of Basil, was when his pleasure was fanned to it's fullest heights. The show had begun, a much more spectacular and devestating show than he could have imagined.

Basil howled, but it was the strained tune of inner frustration bursting painfully forth. Normally restrained, he cursed everything and nothing, and with the former detective's legs over his shoulders, Ratigan leaned forward to hear his frayed words better:

"Fool, I am fool, I have become a fool. I have nothing, I am nothing, All of it, all of it gone, an animal, just an animal..."

He stilled his hips and lay panting above Basil, staring with fascinated eyes as he watched his once idolized rival unwravel. Basil snarled at finding Ratigan's face so intimately close to his. Using his own no-longer-shaking legs, he pulled Ratigan deeper.

"Just get on with it, Ratigan."

Dearly, tenderly, Ratigan dropped a kiss that surprised even himself at the tip of Basil's nose.

"As you wish, precious."

Driving Basil's unprotected back deep into the splintering wood, he drove himself harder, higher into ectasy, feeling the great slithering beast of satisfaction, rear, bite, and seep sweet posion deep into his nerves.

Brought back to the present, Ratigan danced his fingers along Basil's dear skull that harbored a brain glorious and broken. Basil's song went on, entering a pitch that was so close to being fevered that it bordered on the angelic. His eyes were shut tight as up the scales he climbed, fingers bearing the deep cut of sharp strings without complaint.

Ratigan thinks that he knows now, why Basil was willing to sell the last half-acre of his soul for the violin. Basil had been robbed of his voice: his vocal wit, his learned tongue and expansive vocabularly did him nothing in his new world, for it was Ratigan's world. To hear his own voice in any other tongue but defiance would be a guilt too insufferable for Basil to bear. However, he would also forbid himself the easy peace of tears and screams. But his violin, his violin sang his pain more eloquent than he ever could. All of the friction of adjusting to his new life in Ratigan's deep and unyielding hold was poured into the making of music, and with his eyes shut and lips slack, he found release.

Ratigan felt fondness grow, and tipped Basil's chin up. Basil didn't let it impede him, his eyes didn't even open when Ratigan placed a few soft dotting kisses on his brow. He adjusted for the harder angle, resting his chin against his beloved instrument as if preferring the comfort of it's company over another living being.

Ratigan slept there that evening, listening to Basil play far into the night, the last beautiful night of a whole, clear mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Gone, gone, the last piece is gone, and what is left...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What ho, ole boy, I seen you finally managed to give those pesky advisors the slip. "

Basil's cheery, confidant voice greets Ratigan as he lets himself into Basil's corridors with natural familiarity. It is his second home.

He smiles, and slips off his cloak, hanging it with his everyday-crown by the door.

"And I see that you are still ticking away at your fantasy-invention."

Basil shakes his head, "Not fantasy, Professor, innovation! Think of the implications," he says with a bright gleam in his eyes, packing his revolver for another shot, "A silent gun. The perfect weapon." He closes one eye to peer along the line of fire, then sets it down, seeing to a cooling plate of a metal alloy.

Ratigan puts a hand to his face in mock horror. "But, Basil, that sounds postively crimminal!"

Basil gives Ratigan a light smack on the arm, laughing.

"Not at all, Ratigan. It is the job of the scientist to create things, not to dictate the morality of their use."

"There are two levers to set a man in motion, fear and self-interest."

"Bonaparte? That's down right seditious for a British King, don't you think so, Ratigan?"

Ratigan leaned down to tweak Basil's whisker.

"Ah but accusations of inciting rebellion against the king can't be levelled at the king himself, can they? But I'll humor you with something a little closer to home - Ethics and religion must not stay at home when we go to work."

Basil let the words ruminate as he left his experiment. Pausing as he pours himself a cup of tea, he smiles upon finding the perfect rebuttal.

"To you is granted the power of degrading yourself into the lower forms of life, the beasts, and to you is granted the power, contained in your intellect and judgment, to be reborn into the higher forms, the divine." He finishes with a pleased tone as he seats himself in one of the two chairs at the table.

Ratigan praises with open admiration, "Prettily put, my dear."

Basil waves his hand dissmively, "Mere semantics, now come, sit for tea. If we are to make any headway in our work at all, it should be done with something on the belly. Besides, I am very curious to see how those Oriental mixes brewed."

He looks so innocent and happy there, dipping a questing fingertip in his own cup and tasting it thoughtfully, that Basil starts to laugh despite himself.

Basil frowns in light irritation.

"If you are again laughing at my newest interest in cooking, I'd like to remind you the true Rennisance man is a master of all disciplines, even the culinary"

Ratigan slips for a moment, in his amusement, and betrays the illusion.

"My dearest Basil, your little charade of normalcy has become one of your most charming traits." He says with a fond laugh.

The smirk almost blooms on Basil's face as he prepares to give back an equal amount of banter, but it stops and fails. There is a stutter in his brain, a skip as Ratigan's words roll over, gaining unwanted comprehension.

Charade?

The stiff muscle of his logic strains, and he frowns, noticing how close Ratigan has leaned over him.

Charade, charade...

He clears his throat, and starts to rise from his chair, setting tea cup aside. He needs space - now. His duck from under the larger rat's chin would have been neat if not for the nervous twitch he gave while doing it.

"Well, Ratigan, it is getting late and I..."

Ratigan interrupts him with the ease of complete control. With a pitying smile, he rises as well, and snaps shut his pocket watch, Basil's ticking, unforgiving overseer.

"Too right you are, Basil my dear, so how about you come along," He takes the former detective's wrist and pulls him closer. In captivity, Basil has grown thinner, more fragile. It takes no effort to drag the upset mouse deeper into his own private chambers.

Basil tugs away, and an unsure expression falls on his face like a very small, very dark raincloud.

Ratigan snarls a little at the resistance, but then smiles, watching his once very proud, very gifted adversary diminish under the weight of his own mental anguish.

"Is there a problem, pet?"

Basil looks up and says simply.

"Come along...where?"

Ratigan draws him closer into the comforting reality of his own bulk, and lets his hand ghost down Basil's collarbone, "You're a smart mouse, are you not?"

Basil feels he should answer fast then he does. "Y-yes. Yes, I am."

"Of course you are. Now what do you think I want, what do I always want, dearheart?"

Basil clears his throat. "Oh." Ratigan's strong fingers are popping open the buttons of his shirt front. "Oh of course."

Ratigan is back in control, and resumes leading his charge into the bedroom. "It's only fair. " He reminds.

"Only fair. " Basil responds in a monotone as the lamp light is smothered.

Ratigan searches for a way to manipulate Basil no longer, for he understands, above all else, Basil wants company. When he had the luxury of refusing it, the famous Basil of Baker Street was a private man who enjoyed his own space, but forcibly denied of it now - to have the only real friends he had ever made, gone - he wanted it. He wanted and needed something to fill the whistling hollow of his life and self.

Ratigan filled him now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When there is nothing else left, there is still something left. While contradictory, the essence of creation is ever-present, even undetectable. What atoms made the first molecules, which made the first minerals, which made the first man, are still present even when the wholes they comprised are not. From the vaccum of a destroyed spirit, a new self arises, incomparable to the old.

*********** Even a small review makes me excited to write more. Please and thank you for reading!*******************************


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